Too Long
by Kinners
Summary: Mycroft really IS the worst big brother ever. A ghost from the past returns to remind him of this. Will this haunt be able to let go of her demons? Or will she take out her years of angst fatally on the one who caused it all? One-shot as of now, possibly more.
1. Mycroft

"Mr. Holmes?"

"I trust the bust went well?"

"Of course, sir, except-"

"He got away."

"Yes, sir."

"...oh, wipe that look of dread off your face. I didn't expect you to catch him."

"Thank you, sir...I think."

"But there's something else, isn't there?"

…

"Go on, then."

"We found someone in his custody."

"If they were in his custody, he would have disposed of them before he swanned off."

"Well, I don't know what to tell you, because she's certainly alive."

"..._she?_"

"Yes, sir. Fought like a devil, and ran like a hellcat. Gave me a ruddy concussion."

"Tell me, what did she look like?"

"Dark, wavy hair. Not quite black. Blue eyes, almost gray. Decently pretty. Almost looked like-"

…

"...sir?"

"Bring her to me."

"Are you sure that's a good-"

"_As fast as physically possible,_ Lestrade. Need I repeat myself?"

* * *

><p>She held her breath.<p>

She heard the door swing open behind her, and footsteps. Two goodly-sized men, especially compared to her slight frame. It wasn't that that scared her, but given that she was blindfolded, she didn't have enough information to try to fight her way out of captivity. From the ring of the soles on the ground, dress shoes. Someone important had sent for her. Probably the one who had orchestrated the attack on Mycroft's base of operations and orphaned her yet again. A hot, bitter taste wormed its way into her mouth at the thought. The slightly altered rustle of fabric told her that both men were armed, with handguns. Not her weapon of choice usually, but in close quarters they were quite handy. In case a certain _someone_ tried to make trouble. This 'someone important' was clever enough not to take it easy on her.

Nonetheless, she growled to herself in displeasure. Once in a while, a break would be nice. But the challenge was nice, she supposed.

She stood up and stretched as best she could with cuffs on and hands behind her back, hearing the cock of their guns and the rigid freeze of their posture.

"Oh, boys, I'm only making things easier for you," she said drowsily. She was actually as conscious and ready to bash some heads as humanly possible, but why let them know that? "No way I can rough myself out of this one. So get it over with, if you please."

They said nothing in response to her taunts. Rubbish-whoever was in charge here was more clever than she had anticipated. Almost as clever as...

_Not now,_ she scolded herself.

They took her by the elbows and led her out the door. She kept track of the path they took-left, five paces, right, eleven paces, right, three paces, etc., etc. But if this clever streak were to carry on or be a streak at all, it probably wasn't the most straightforward path to or from their destination. She would do the same, after all; try to confuse the quarry, and even if they can keep track of the path, if they try to make it back security is bound to get there first.

An elevator pinged in front of them. Clever again. While it was child's play to record your own steps, elevators all traveled at different speeds and had different spaces between the floors. But they finally slipped up: the man who pushed the button still had her at the elbow. She forced herself not to smile.

They went down. Curious. She hadn't remembered being ferried up stairs. She listened to their breathing patterns, tried to deduce their overall fitness, did her best to piece together every bit of information she could. Good thing her best was better than most people's best.

They came out again, walking on carpet. Not too thick, as it didn't completely muffle their footsteps. She couldn't help her instinct to step silently. Too many years of living in the shadows, being on the run from things she didn't even know existed. She realized with another grumble that someone was bound to notice. Too much cleverness going on for there to be no clever people in the vicinity.

She was sat down in a decently comfortable chair-love seat, by the cushioning. Ugh. Slow, easy breathing, about two paces in front of her. Older man, sitting down, having been relaxed for quite some time. She could definitely take him, but she knew that the two other guards were breathing down her neck. That, and she knew something else.

This must be the clever person.

"Welcome change from that &$#y stool," she muttered half to herself with a staged yawn. Didn't half matter, if the clever person were really clever. She thought of it as a test, of sorts. He was silent for a long time. She hated that silence. She knew that he was scrutinizing her, but she couldn't cold-read him for any answers while blinded. The only way she knew he was even there was by his breathing. But suddenly he took an energetic breath, as if he had awoken from a trance. He'd been thorough...or thoughtful.

"Oh, I'm sure," replied the man in a kind voice. Deceptively kind. Only made her more alert. "I wouldn't dream of making my guests uncomfortable." She didn't know how to reply, for the first time in her career. But not because of what he said as much as how he said it. There was an unplaceable something in that timbre, something familiar. But how could anything be familiar to a girl without a home? To a girl that hadn't had one since…

"You're clever, aren't you?" he continued. She couldn't shake that voice. It kept her from focusing.

"Clever enough to know that you're the one that brought my brother down," she snarled vehemently. She may not have a steel grip on her emotions like her brother did, but that was because she knew how to use them to her advantage. "If you're so clever, then you should have figured out that you didn't catch him."

Silence.

"Leave us."

The footsteps leading away sounded genuine. Why shouldn't they? One might as well send them off rather than go to all the trouble to fake footsteps. He was clever enough to know that she was clever, clever enough to know the difference.

But why? If he knew that she was clever, then why would he risk himself just for some quality time?

"Of course he got away," eased the man. The tone in his voice was calm, soothing almost, but she was too good to let herself be lulled into a false sense of security. "We expected him to. He's dreadfully good at that. Rather inconvenient, I must say."

"How would you know?" she hissed in a low voice. "How long have you known my brother?"

Breath pattern erratic. He was trying to keep his feelings under control. But what feelings?

"Much longer than _you_ knew him." he said finally. His diction was cryptic. _Knew?_

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded. She was growing afraid, but she grew angry faster than she grew afraid. "How could you have known him longer than me? He's my brother. I've known him since the day I was born."

"I'm older than you," he pointed out. $&#, true. Still, helped to clear up the mystery a little.

"How old?" she snapped, though she didn't expect him to answer. When he did, her heart stopped.

"Thirty-eight." he stated quietly. Her mind was racing. Mycroft had said he was thirty-seven, but just as she was remembering his birthday and the impossibility of that statement, he'd taken that phone call and walked away. Thirty-eight, however…

_My God,_ she thought.

"No way," she said.

"He was lying to you, don't you realize?" he continued. If she chose to undo her blindfold, she swore that she would see him smirking. "He must have done a good job, to fool _you_, but even he isn't perfect. 'Mycroft' slipped up, and you know it. He's not your brother."

"He's not my brother," she whispered, trembling with the realization.

"I am."

She froze time so she could think. But how could she believe him? Even if 'Mycroft' wasn't Mycroft, then how could she know that this man was what he claimed to be? Ah, yes.

"My brother would remember this," she crowed triumphantly.

She rolled her hands over her head and threw off her blindfold. Before it was even off all the way, she knew in the back of her heart what he would say.

"Double jointed shoulders," he drawled. "Of course I would remember my own sister's quirks."

His hair was the same color as Mummy's. His tired smile crinkled the edges of his eyes just like Dad's would, dancing with a forgotten joy as if he knew a secret. Even the pot belly and the receding hairline seemed like he had had them all his life. He was older, certainly, but no plastic surgeon could replicate a face that perfectly. And she never forgot a face.

"You can take your cuffs off now," he said gently. She was two steps ahead of him. They fell from her hands like wet paper. "I would hurry to catch you up on everything and anything, but you being my sister, you've doubtless figured it out yourself."

She looked long and hard at him, not daring to let her face move. She knew how to use them, certainly, but in this instance, her feelings would give me away. Instinct told her that that wasn't an option. Her mind told her to focus and figure out the truth. Her heart told her to quit overthinking it and run to him.

"You've gained some weight," she deducted before she could put her filter on. His clothes had been stretched out, but they didn't fit so tightly anymore. "but you've been working on it. It's not hugely obvious, so you must be self-conscious about it. If you ask my opinion, it doesn't really matter. Running around was never your thing, why push it? Your smile is so oversweetened it could kill a small rodent-well practiced, well faked. You're used to smiling to keep your act up, but really you're in deeper than you let on, you clever sod, you. And you hate smiling, because you never mean it. Judging by your dress, you occupy a minor position in the government, but minor positions don't get personal bouncers or organize busts on big-timers like Mycroft. Or, I guess, Not-Mycroft."

She looked away from him at the end of her sentence. He noticed with a pang of guilt that she still referred to Moriarty as Mycroft. He rose to his feet, leaning on an umbrella. She recognized it with a pang of memoriam. Yet she sat unmoving, face unfeeling, watching his every move.

"I had no idea Moriarty had you in his grasp," he apologized. He said it so matter-of-factly that he wouldn't sound upset to anybody else, but already she knew him well enough to know that his heart was heavy with regret. "I had no idea if you were even alive. If I did, I swear that I would have stopped at nothing to-"

He jumped at the thunk of steel in wood. Out of nowhere, his sister had produced a stiletto knife, its silver gleam begging to be stained crimson. It stood embedded in the arm of her chair, held still by a deceptively steady hand. She looked from the knife to him, her expression motionless.

For the first time in years, he felt a true pang of fear.

"Don't lie to me, Mycroft," she commanded flatly. She still wouldn't call him brother. She spoke slowly, picking her words carefully. "You wouldn't have come. You didn't. Because you _knew._"

She rose to her feet, stepping deliberately towards him. He mustered all of his willpower to stand his ground, watching his sister approach him with a stiletto twirling absentmindedly in her fingers.

"You knew they wouldn't just kill a child," She bit off her words with a staccato tongue. His gaze was locked into hers, like a vole held in place by a cobra. "You knew they had a use for me. That's why you took me to them in the first place. You thought you would be allowed to keep an eye on me, to watch over me like a _real_ brother, but they wouldn't let you. You overestimated yourself."

She halted directly in front of him. The knife hovered, its point a breath away from his neck. He didn't have to look to know it was there.

"I am not afraid of you." he stated neutrally. She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"I told you not to lie to me, Mycroft," she reprimanded. "Of course you're afraid of me. You're afraid of what I represent. I was your first lesson learnt, your first gamble lost, your first casualty. Your first of many. Don't pretend that you have a clean slate. Don't_ lie_ to me."

Her wrist gave a sudden movement as she accented her word. Mycroft took a sudden breath, closing his eyes in preparation for what he was sure would be his end. His last gamble lost.

"Give me one reason." she hissed. He felt the point on his skin. It would take the most minimal effort to send it through his jugular.

"You'll have to be a little more specific, sister." he said casually.

"Don't call me that!" she snapped suddenly, her volume startling him. But he didn't show it. She took a deep breath to get her nerves under control.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't end you," she snarled, hatred bubbling beneath her irises. "why I shouldn't avenge those you took advantage of, those you failed to protect, those you lied to. Why I shouldn't avenge myself. Why I shouldn't make you pay for the years I spent not knowing who I was, or where I was, or why my own brother had given me away. One. Simple. Reason."

He thought. Long and hard. One tends to focus quite intently when one's life is on the line. Finally he smiled again. Fake. Fake fake fake.

"Because I found you, of course." He said it like it were the most obvious thing in the world. She laughed singularly.

"You're a &$#y idiot, Mycroft."

She cocked back her arm, a grimace written on her face.

He choked back a cry. Not of pain, but of surprise.

She had hugged him with the force of a pouncing predator. She gripped him like her life depended on it, burying her face in his shoulder so that he wouldn't see her cry. He was afraid to breathe too deeply, as if she would squeeze the life out of him as he exhaled like a constrictor. For a second, he was thrown. One moment she was about to kill him, the next she was hugging him?

"I won't do it," she explained quietly, struggling to keep her voice from wavering. "because I'm your sister. You forgot that, eighteen years ago, but _I_ never did. I never will."

He didn't know what to say. It took a lot to make him feel like the worst big brother in the history of families, but that was because he didn't care. But she had made him care. He hadn't had a good hug since…

...since he lost her.

He hugged her back, letting his umbrella clatter to the floor.

"Ease up, sister, I need to breathe," he chuckled softly. Her grip eased up ever so slightly. He hadn't really expected her to loosen at all, upon recalling her death-grip hugs from when she was a little girl. She had matured.

"I love you, Mikey," she squeaked, unable to control her wavering voice. He could feel where her tears damped his suit, filled with nothing but appeased heartache. He didn't even acknowledge the use of his hated nickname.

"I love you too," he murmured honestly. For the first time in thirty-eight years.


	2. Sherlock

"Your brother and I have been, begrudgingly, attempting to cooperate to take down Moriarty. He was there when Jim apparently shot himself, and then was forced to fake his own suicide. I'm sure you heard about that in the papers?"

"I don't read papers. Good source for everything but the important stuff. I was also investigating a terrorist cell in Belgium at the time."

"Fair enough. Anyway, I've been trying to reach him, but he remains adamant about not talking to me. I won't risk texting or calling him, knowing Moriarty's contacts. He has the most profound hackers this side of the world under his hand. He probably won't take your reappearance very well-you know how he is. Horribly dramatic."

"So. Reunite ourselves with each other, tell him all about how you busted Moriarty, get him on it."

"Precisely. Oh, and do try to keep him from blowing something up in his temper tantrum."

"But Mikey, I'm the one who throws tantrums!"

"Yes, of course. How could I have forgotten? And by the way, you were in Lithuania, not Belgium."

" &$#it, Mikey."

"You know Sherlock will be worse."

* * *

><p>Violin.<p>

The music floated weightlessly from upstairs, halting occasionally and restarting with minute changes. He must be composing. Odd-she recalled in some ages-past memory his fuming at being forced into music lessons. Of course, he was only eight at the time, which would have made her four. No clue how she remembered that.

An older woman with curly hay-colored hair walked up to her, smiling sweetly. Not fakely as Mycroft's smile was, which was nice. As much as she loved her mid-eldest brother, that look on his beloved face gave her a sour feeling in her stomach.

"Hello," she greeted sincerely. She couldn't help smiling back. "Are you a client?"

She could guess what that meant. Sherlock's brains, his chronic boredom-go fig. "Not exactly. I'm just a...friend."

"Sherlock doesn't have many friends," replied the woman, her smile fading slightly in confusion.

"No, he doesn't," she mused. He wouldn't. Sociopath. Highly-functioning, but sociopath nonetheless.

"Oh, a thousand apologies, miss!" blurted the woman suddenly, beaming again. "I'm Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock's landlady. Would you like a cuppa?"

"No, thank you," she said carefully, beginning to hike up the stairs. She had already deduced that and much more about this woman, and there were more pressing matters at hand. "I just need to talk to him, if that's all right."

"It's quite all right with me, but Sherlock's another matter." warned Mrs. Hudson. She barely heard her.

The violin continued its singing, doing less of its stop-start-do-over routine. He must've gone over this part already, or his mind was on something else. More likely the latter. She forced herself to walk normally until she didn't feel Mrs. Hudson's eyes on her anymore. Then she reverted to her silent walk. She carefully, deliberately, crept up the stairs and poked her head into the flat.

Frankly, it was a mess. Honestly, it was a classic mess. A skull rested on the mantle, observing two chairs facing each other before the fireplace. A couch stood against the opposite wall, looking positively grimy. A chemical-laden odor of something burning wafted from the kitchen, while pale drapes filtered the gray light from the windows. Silhouetted in the light of the leftmost one was a bathrobed figure with a curly mop of dark hair. The bow of the violin flew as he belted out a complicated arpeggio. But as soon as she set foot in the flat, it hovered on a high, fragile note.

He must have known.

The music stopped. A thrill panged in her heart.

"Shy, aren't you?" he mused. His voice was so deep that for a moment she was confused. She'd only known his voice as a child, which was a considerable range higher than his current voice. He almost sounded like Daddy, with his proud, booming voice that used to scare away the East Wind that Mycroft would terrorize her with.

"What tells you that?" she inquired. He set the violin down on one of the chairs before the fireplace.

"You were quiet," he began as he did so. "insomuch that you didn't even-" He looked up at her and was silent. Her hand flew to her mouth, so flawlessly did he resemble her last image of Sherlock. That pale face, the sharp features, the icy eyes that missed nothing...all of it perfect. The quiet moment lasted for uncountable heartbeats.

"No, not shy," he revised, slowly straightening. She took a deep breath to calm down, though it did little. "disciplined. You've been trained to walk silently, not to make yourself known until you are sure of a situation. That means espionage, undercover government work of some sorts. Probably in league with my brother. He doubtless wants me to communicate every shred of information to him, willingly or otherwise. Covers it up as 'brotherly concern,' but I know better. And so do you, don't you?"

"I-"

"Slight abnormality in your left sleeve, probably a shiv or stiletto. More likely a stiletto, judging by the width of the blade. Also tells me you're left handed, or ambidextrous. So well concealed I almost didn't notice it. But you have no intention of using it on me, because if you did, you would have done it already. Just a precaution, taught by years of…"

His expression froze in place for a moment as the realization fermented in his brain. She took a cautious step closer, brow furrowed as if thinking of something to say to him that would help. But instead she took a deep breath and straightened up from her half-crouched pose, lifting her chin in an attempt to reassure herself and control her emotions.

"My turn," she said evenly. He narrowed his eyes at her, his own mind racing. "You haven't touched a hairbrush in years, you have better things to do, and you're not bored, for once. If you were bored, you would have reverted to your smoking habit rather than going to that silly violin. You still have nicotine stains under your fingernails from yesterday, but since then you've gotten a case and you're thinking on it by composing. That last high note, you held it for much longer than you needed to-that was either an epiphany about the case or about me. You spaced out for a moment as you put the pieces together, so your hands absently stopped working the violin.

"You're not living alone, if you were, this place would reek of death and who knows what else. Judging by the handgun on the desk over there, he used to be in the army. Knowing you, you could've gotten a gun anywhere, but this particular gun shows signs of exposure to the elements, in particular heat, and routine care. You're not so attached to guns that you would clean yours regularly, but an ex-soldier? Definitely. From the sun damage and model he was in either Iraq or Afghanistan, and seeing that he was attracted to as fascinating a person as you, he's still reeling from the excitement of war. But he doesn't live here anymore...it's steadily getting more cluttered and less managed. If he left his gun here, though, that means that he still feels concern over you. You've made a friend. Which is odd, what with you being a sociopath."

He barely heard her. He already knew that she would deduce all those things. What he didn't know was whether he believed himself. That was a new feeling.

"Sherlock?" she asked tentatively. She used the name with a trace of fondness, half forgotten. The puzzle pieces fell into place with a fresh ring of surety. Rule out the impossible and whatever remains, however improbable, must be possible.

"Sent by Mycroft," he repeated. "Undercover agent for the government. Ambidextrous. Years of practice at being clever." He nodded at her, looking at her hands briefly before his gaze flicked back up to her blue eyes. Blue like his. "Clasp your hands behind your back."

She obeyed, smiling wryly. "I know what you're going to say."

She rolled her hands over her head without them ever letting go of each other.

"Yes, it's me," she said finally. He said nothing, didn't even move. "Anathea Holmes. Your little sister. Short version: not dead."

Well, that was obvious. But how?

"Mycroft," he murmured under his breath, his eyes barely seeing her. She raised an eyebrow at him, mentally asking him to go on.

She needn't have.

"_Mycroft!_" he roared suddenly, storming to the window to glare out at the world. She carefully came closer to him, noting the drawn brows and the clenched fists.

"I should've known it was him," he growled, though his voice wavered. "I should've known. You didn't die, he took you away. He gave you away. That's how you got here, that's how he rediscovered you at all, because he eventually came to be the same institution that took you from us. From me."

He scrunched his eyes shut, trying valiantly to control his waves of rage. But he couldn't hide from her that he was shaking with each breath he took. She laid a hand on his fist, provoking a wild look from Sherlock, as if he still thought she was just a ghost. She tried to give him a kind smile, but he couldn't help but notice that it was a pained one.

"Yes, it was Mycroft," she said softly. The look on his face was steadily making the transition from the anger of his adulthood to the confusion of his childhood. "and yes, he did something very wrong that night. I've done some bad things, too. And I could say that it's all his fault, that I have every right to take it out on him and lay myself blameless. And I also know that you feel the exact same way."

His eyes were shining with added moisture. He was still shaking.

"Then why don't you?" he asked quietly. "You said so yourself. You have every reason to end him. What could trump that? What holds you back?"

That same tired smile took him back to the days. The days with just him, his big brother, and their little sister. Nobody else to tell them that they were freaks, to tell them how brilliant they were. The little pranks, the pointless games, the endless summers. But there was always that confusion, deep underneath, that confusion that plagued him to this day. That was the reason why he so desperately needed to be the most clever person in the room. But it never helped. He acted superior, but there was always something that made him the sociopath he was. Something that made him afraid.

Because he still didn't understand.

She ruffled his hair, having to stand on her toes to do so.

"Because he's my brother," she said matter-of-factly. "And you are, too."

Then she hugged him.

He was about to throw her off of him, about to bring his wrath upon his brother, about to burst out the door and do something he might regret. But something made him stop-that same something that made him a terrified sociopath. That something told him to hug her back.

So he did.

She held the back of his head with one hand and gave him a death grip around the neck with her other arm. For once in his life, he did absolutely nothing about the tears streaking down his cheeks.

"I love you, Sherlock," she said quietly. He held her tighter, mentally swearing not to let her go again. Or let his emotions get the better of him like this. It was quite embarrassing.

"I love you too," he murmured honestly. For the first time in thirty-one years.


End file.
